


Clubbing activities

by Alphawave



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Confessions, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, It's smut but also feels which is like 90 percent of all NSFW fics I write, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Sex Club, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphawave/pseuds/Alphawave
Summary: Kim takes Harry to a sex club to help cure Harry of his performance anxiety and makes some surprising discoveries about himself and the relationship he shares with his partner
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Clubbing activities

You were not the clubbing type when you were younger. The pulsing lights and the pulsating anodic music drilling into your head and the writhing bodies moving to the rhythm, it’s just not your thing at all. Decades later, and you’re still not the clubbing type. Harry isn’t either from what you both have gathered about his past. He preferred to celebrate privately, to have a good time and a drink (or several) in the comfort of his home or a cheap, dingy bar with a half-decent karaoke scene. But he’s not drinking anymore, and there's no karaoke here, and you came up with the idea of going to a club tonight, so maybe you're both capable of change.

Harry tugs awkwardly at his shirt collar. He’s been fidgeting for the last several minutes. He stares at the unremarkable building leading into the club and swallows. "Are we, uh, sure about this?"

You say the same thing every time he’s asked you that question tonight, which is quite a few times. "Do you want to back out?"

As always, he thinks for a few seconds before shaking his head. "N-no." He tries to get a look inside, but the bouncers make it difficult. "I…I have to do this." He turns to you with stalwart, shimmering eyes. "I want to."

The smallest smile graces your features. "And I'll be here to help you. You have nothing to worry about." You slide up to the bouncer and show your ID. Your civilian ID, that is. Giving your RCM ID to a club, let alone a club frequented by homosexuals, is a recipe for disaster. By your side, Harry fumbles for his wallet, but the bouncer’s patience must be thin, because he gestures for the both of you to get in anyway. The bouncer probably thinks Harry won't be able to do any harm. You hope that is the case. Harry's sober, and you intend to keep it that way tonight. You're well aware of the destruction Harry can wreak when he's not of sound mind. 

You enter the front door and are both greeted by a long hallway framed with portraits. To the side is a coat room with a lone stewardess. Before you are billowing curtains, and beyond that, a whole new world that neither you nor Harry have experienced. A new memory to craft together, a new experience to explore. Trepidation and wonder fills your lungs. You can only imagine what lies past those curtains. 

The stewardess takes both yours and Harry’s coats and clears you to go ahead. But then she goes "wait, wait. I almost forgot," and reveals a bunch of coloured wrist bands.

Well…wrist bands is being generous. It's more accurate to call them coloured wrist-sized pieces of string.

"Before you go in, I have to ask, are you exclusive," she gestures at the red band, "looking for male partners, "she gestures at the blue, "female," the orange, "or both?" The green.

Harry huffs. "This is incredibly sexist. Trying to define a man and a woman by a single colour. Trying to define the wide breadth of sexuality by a flimsy piece of string."

The stewardess looks confused and just a little bit frightened. You sigh and shove Harry aside before he gets into another feminist rant again. "Two of the red bands, please."

She gives you two a look, and then slides you both two red wrist bands. "Club rules apply. Please take a look at the sign on the right before heading in."

You know that twinkle in her eyes. You've seen that twinkle given to other people, but never you personally. And that twinkle makes two of her thoughts obvious to you: one, that neither of you have been here before, and two, that you and Harry are definitely an item.

To your misfortune, she's totally correct on both accounts.

Harry fortunately doesn't say a word as you both put the red wrist bands on, his on his outstretched right wrist and yours on your left. Whether Harry put his on the opposite wrist for some grander purpose or if it is merely coincidence, you can only guess. When he gives a friendly wave goodbye at the stewardess and slides his hand into yours, you're definitely more inclined to believe that he's doing this on purpose.

As the stewardess said, there’s a sign hanging just before the curtains, which Harry reads slowly and carefully. You don’t need to read it. You can already guess what’s on there. It's the club rules on what you can and cannot do. No groping girls (or guys), drunks get kicked out, et cetera. You can't help but wonder if that's a secret way the club determines whether someone is new to this place or not by the length of time they take reading the sign. Or rather, if they bothered to read the sign or not. Regulars probably don't need to. 

Harry takes a step away from the sign and lets out a shuddery breath. He takes your hand and squeezes. Any other day you'd swat his hand away, because you're certainly not going to entertain the idea of holding hands with Harry in public, but you've already mentally steeled yourself for this possibility. He's scared, and if you're honest to yourself, you are a little bit too. You're both vulnerable here, but you'll be vulnerable with each other. Just with each other.

You squeeze back, and a bit of tension melts away from your shoulders.

"You sure they’re, uh, welcoming of the homosexual underground here?" Harry asks.

"So I’ve been told." You adjust your glasses. "We’ll find out inside."

"And they're welcoming of what we're going to do there?"

"I think so."

"On the count of three?" Harry smiles shyly.

You roll your eyes. "Harry, let’s just get inside."

He takes several deep breaths, as if psyching himself. "You can do this. You haven’t had a drink or some drugs in a long while, but it’s fine, it’s cool, it’s hip." He shakes his head. "Okay. Ready? One—"

Before he can finish, you push him past the curtains to pulsing lights, pulsating anodic music, and writhing bodies. It’s just like any other club one might go to on a typical evening, barring one major exception.

That being, the gigantic orgy happening on the dance floor.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. The pungent scent of musk and sweat and cum is powerful, and you can only imagine it’ll get worse as the night progresses. The second thing that hits you is the variety of people of all ages. There’s a man twenty years your senior and a young woman barely at the legal age. Revacholieres and Seolites and Mesquites and Semenese and many other people in this sex hot pot, giving and taking like no one is watching. And it is indeed quite friendly to the homosexual underground. There’s a man giving a blowjob while getting fucked in his ass. There are two women rubbing their clits together. There’s a married man and a married woman (you assume they're married to each other by the matching rings) kissing the length of a third man’s dick. Everyone has coloured bands on their wrists. 

You have to admit, this was your idea to come to the sex club, but even this sight is too much for you. If Harry’s bulging eyes are anything to go by, you’re not alone.

"W-wow…" he murmurs.

"It’s…something," you utter, being careful to be as vague as possible.

"Do we…do I…" he points at the crowd of writhing, moaning bodies.

"Do you want to join in?" Your tone is flat, but you can't help the spike of jealousy that creeps up your throat. The thought of sharing Harry with another person, it makes you feel sick. Not that you told Harry. This is another possibility you've considered. Another bit of selfishness you have to stuff deep, deep inside you.

"I…I’m not sure," Harry admits. "Don't think I'd wanna."

Harry’s looking at you intently now and somehow you can tell what he's thinking. He’s trying to be considerate of you. He’s been doing that more often as of late, both in your work and personal lives. You don’t know what’s prompted it. If you're being honest, it's completely unnecessary, but you do appreciate it every now and then.

"It might be too much to join in that…tangle of limbs at the moment," you say diplomatically. "Let’s find a quiet corner, shall we?"

Harry nods, but his gaze is away from you. He sees something in the distance, his gaze glassy and longing. You turn to see what he’s looking at, and of course it’s alcohol. Specifically what appears to be whiskey, left forgotten on a table alongside the person’s clothes and belongings.

"Harry," you snap his fingers at him, "you’re staying sober. That’s the whole reason we’re here."

"But one little drink can’t hurt. It’ll make tonight go a lot easier."

"Which is precisely why I’m ordering you not to have another drink. Now come on." You lead him forward, past the throngs of onlookers in various states of arousal, to a small little alcove near the emergency exit. The music is faded here, and there’s not as many people around, though there is still a significant amount of people lingering nearby, watching the action unfold. It’s as private as you can possibly get in this place. It’ll have to do.

Harry takes his position near the wall and crosses his arms. For tonight, you told Harry to wear something nice that he doesn’t mind getting dirty. In his case, it’s an old dress shirt that he’s only recently managed to fit into and the ass-hugging jeans, which seem to show more ass the longer your relationship becomes. Taken together with his haircut last week, which you had to do because no hairdresser in Revachol trusts being around Harry with a pair of scissors, and he looks like a man trying to woo his date.

In case it's not obvious, said date he's trying to woo is you. And if that was his intent, then it is a rousing success.

In comparison, you’re dressed quite casually. Just your usual white tank top and a pair of cargo pants, not including your usual bomber jacket which is being held in the coat room. Casual, a bit more laid-back than you're used to, but still presentable. Normally you don’t care too much about what people think about your appearance but compared to the few people still wearing clothes, you feel out of place. Or maybe you’re thinking that because you _are_ out of place. This scene is never one you would ever entertain the idea of, let alone enter, but you’re in a relationship with Harry, and he’s already shattered your world view hundreds of times over.

Maybe tonight, it’s your turn to shatter his.

Harry taps a rhythm to his bicep, which seems to bulge under his slightly-too-tight shirt. He’s still staring at the crowd.

"You’re not getting a drink, and that’s final."

"I’m not, it’s not that, it’s just…this feels fucking excessive for a fuck up like me." He runs a hand through his oiled, trimmed hair. You can’t help but feel a bit of pride for your handiwork. Harry looks good when his hair isn’t wild and frizzy like it used to be.

You realize your hand is half-raised to run through his hair, but you successfully stifle it, returning your arm to your side. "Harry, you were the one who told me many nights ago that you get nervous having sex when you’re sober. You told me you didn't want to 'fuck up our bedroom activities', as you so claimed. I thought we might be able to do something about it."

"By taking me to a sex club?"

"Perhaps with a bit of shock therapy, we might be able to alleviate your condition. After all, in this place, anyone can look at us right now."

Harry sharply inhales. "A-anyone?"

"Anyone," you say. To your fortune, your voice does not warble.

"And you’re suggesting we cure my performance anxiety by…" His eyebrows rise sharply.

"Having sex here where anyone can see us, yes."

Harry gulps audibly. His eyes drill into you, piercing through the veil of cool indifference you always put up in public. "And you’re doing this for me because…?"

Because you care about him. Because you love him. But even after he’s broken down wall after wall, you still can’t find the strength to say it out loud. You know that if you say it, everything between you and Harry will change, and you won’t be able to back out from it. And it scares you. No one else has gotten this far with you. You don’t want to be the reason this relationship goes sideways. You don’t want to entertain the thought that what you have with Harry will end. Harry won't recover from it. You won't either. 

Harry gives you that can-opening gaze of his and sighs softly. "You’re nervous too."

You can’t even pretend to be surprised. You’re doing a piss poor job at keeping up your cool façade. "I am," you glance down at your boots.

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. You think he might let this conversation slide away and let you take him for the wild ride you're both just dying to hop on. Instead, he asks something that makes you slam the brakes.

"Why’d you get us two of the exclusive bands?"

You blink rapidly. "I don’t understand. Did you not want…?"

"N-no, not at all. Fuck, even if I got a different band, what are the fucking chances I’ll even get my hands on someone else?"

If you were more brazen, you might say that Harry has a bigger chance of picking people up when he's not acting like a depressed mess. You might even be so bold as to admit that he's not an unattractive man. But you're not that kind of Kim. "Then why did you ask?"

"I dunno. I mean, are we exclusive? You know, you and I?"

Your brows furrow. "I assumed we are. I’m not seeing anybody else, nor do I plan to find someone else. We’re partners, aren’t we?"

"Partners that just happen to have incredibly kinky sex," Harry smirks. "Partners that think going to a sex club is the perfect place to cure performance anxiety."

"Exactly," you chuckle lightly.

"But that still doesn’t explain why you chose the exclusive band."

"Well, I’m not planning on sharing you tonight. Not after I gave you such a nice haircut. Unless you want me to share you with someone else?" This time you do give in to compulsion and let your fingers sift through his fine strands. It's soft and slick and fuck, why didn't you do this earlier? Harry closes his eyes and moves his head towards your touch. 

Harry gives you a dazzling grin. "The coolest man ever? Letting someone else get their paws on me? Fat chance." He takes your gloved hand and kisses you on the sliver of wrist just below the edge of your gloves. "I’m never sharing you with anybody. Signed and stamped for all to see. Kim Kitsuragi: Property of Harrier du Bois."

Just like that he pulls a smile from your lips so easily. You feel vulnerable when you smile like this, doubly so in this public setting, but you have to push down these uncomfortable feelings. Tonight is about Harry and helping him and making him feel good. Whatever enjoyment you might get is secondary. After all, you can always milk your own enjoyment the morning after.

Harry puts his hands on either side of your jaw and pulls you close for a chaste, gentle kiss. There’s no tongue, but there’s plenty of heart and heat, and it’s all familiar ground you’ve tread before but you know he can give you more. You kiss him back with a little bit of pressure, your fingers curling into his scalp. You can feel his smile grow on your lips. When he breathes, the air is filled with trepidation and fear and worry. With the shift of your lips, you take those negative emotions away from him and lock them up inside you, where they may never see the light.

Harry pulls you towards him, and you gasp as his hands settle near your waist. Your chests and crotches are pressed together, and he ruts into you, massaging his heat and strength into your body. He breathes heavily, puffing his fumes into your face. His cheeks are rosy but he’s completely sober and clean, and suddenly you’re aware of a pair of eyes staring down at you with all the weight and wonder of the world. 

Just like that, you’re already at half-mast.

"Excited already?" He chuckles.

"You’re not?"

Harry shakes his head. His eyes flicker away from yours to take in the crowd. You can feel them staring at you, watching your every move, waiting to see how far you will go. You swallow the shame down like the bitter pill it is.

"Still nervous?" You ask.

"Of course I am," Harry breathes. "Fuck, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What I need to say."

"Don’t worry about it. Leave it all to me." You force your hands to stop trembling and take Harry’s lips upon yours once more. You pry him open with your tongue, tasting his groans and whimpers while your hips rut into him, trying to coax him into hardness. But Harry is even more awkward than he normally is. He’s frozen, a living statue, his hands stiff and his legs firmly locked in place. Only his tongue and lips move, and even that the movements are instinctual rather than a conscious effort on his part. You'll have to make the first move. Another thing that comes naturally to you.

You take his arms and place them around your neck. Strands of saliva glisten as you break away, glasses misted over as your deft fingers pull his belt away. Harry’s eyes widen, but he does not stop you. His hand glides up to your head and grips into your fine hair. His breath shakes. He knows where this is going.

"Kim…" he breathes uncertainly.

But you ignore him as you pull his belt away and loop it around his fat neck like a necktie. Next you go for his zipper, gliding it down smoothly to the bottom. Your gloved finger curls around the edge of his trousers, and even through all this material you can swear you can hear Harry’s heartbeat pulse in rhythm to the music. Unless that heartbeat is yours. It’s impossible to say right now. On a scale of one to ten, you’re both turned up to eleven.

"Kim…?"

Instead of pulling his trousers down, you take your wrist to your face and peel your gloves off one at a time before stuffing them into your pockets. A gasp could be heard, louder in front of you, but also a soft chorus all around you in strange, unknown directions. Your exposed hand wilts in the cold, but it doesn’t stay cold for long as you plunge your hand into the hole of Harry’s trousers and underwear and press your palm against his dick.

And oh, is it warm and wet and ripe for the taking. A surge of pride and power fills your lungs, making you feel invincible for just a second. A part of you likes this, holding Harry’s soft dick in this almost casual grip, forcing all his attention on you, making him submit to you. But you haven’t just commanded his attention. In the periphery of your vision, just outside the boundaries of your glasses, massless shapes stop moving and writhing, no doubt to look at you and the man in front of you and the soft, hot cock you’ve pulled out from the latter’s pants.

You swallow thickly. So does Harry. He sees the same thing you see.

"K-K-Kim, they’re staring."

"I-I know," you whisper.

"Why are they staring? I-I don’t like the way they’re staring."

"Maybe they see what I see." You stroke Harry down to the base. "A bigger, stronger man being subservient to someone that’s physically weaker." You stroke up to the tip. "A lover giving in to his lover." Your fingertips ghost around his shaft. "A performer about to give his performance." The lightest smile plays on your lips. "Or maybe they’re just horny."

"Is that last one why you’re staring?" Harry chuckles nervously. His free hand feels for the wall behind him, his only lifeline to the world and reality, the only way to convince himself that this is all real, that you're real. You’re not sure yourself if this is real either. 

"Maybe I'm horny," you say diplomatically. "Can’t you tell?"

"I can," Harry admits. His eyes go half-lidded as you set to stroke him at a slow, even pace. He’s not hard yet, but he’s beginning to leak into your hand, and you slick him up slowly, carefully, teasingly. His mouth goes agape, but the only noise that escapes his lips is a quiet sigh.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"A bit hard when everyone’s watching," Harry grunts. 

"Ignore them. Imagine they’re naked…or in underwear, seeing as most of them are already naked."

But Harry shakes his head. "They’re not staring at me. They’re staring at you. They’re transfixed," he sighs.

Your breath hitches in your throat, too quiet for all but the most observant to pick up. "T-they can’t be staring at me."

Harry’s gaze goes past you, to the sea of empty faces and meaningless bodies behind you. "But they are. They know already you’re too good for a place like this. Know you deserve to have your own one-man show and take over the town. Could put on something real good if you’ll let the spotlight catch your eyes."

You think you catch the meaning of his words, but it’s not more better. You pick up the pace, hoping to get him hard, hoping to get the real show started, hoping that Harry will shut up already and stop being so fucking affectionate when he should be getting horny.

"You’re cool, Kim, and everyone knows it," Harry continues. "In the Precinct, out on the street, here in this sex club, it’s all right here in front of me. Kim Kitsuragi: coolest, sexiest man in the world. And he’s giving a handjob to the fuckiest of fuck up cops."

Suddenly those emotions you keep deep in the icy stores of your lungs threatens to burst free from their prison. Energy ripples through you as you push Harry to the wall, pinning him in place. Your hand curls around his cock, and Harry moans, still far too quiet compared to the crowd but loud enough for you to hear. 

"Let me get a few things straight, Lieutenant. I’m not some shining paragon of purity and light. I’ve done fucked up things, some so fucked up they’d put your fuck ups to shame. And I don’t want or need to be seen like you do. All this, what I’m doing now, it’s a performance all in support of you, and I wouldn’t be fucking do this if I don’t want to or if I think you don’t deserve it."

Harry’s eyes shimmer like cold, sewage water draining into the river. He's locked onto you now. "P-performance?"

"All this, the club, the people, it’s all a play, a production. Improvised or practiced, this place is a stage. The people fucking each other like rabbits here, they’re the performers. And their audience is each other, the performers of their own little plays, each trying to one-up the other. Because that’s all sex is: a performance in which people express themselves with their bodies."

You can see the cogs slowly turn in Harry’s head. His blush spreads down his cheeks to flush his neck and collar, making his skin glitter in prismatic colours, and you can’t help it. You press your lips to his jugular, feel his shaky breath leave his throat as he begins to thrust into your hand. You indulge him for a few seconds before you squeeze tight, forcing him to stop. A finger goes up to your glasses and adjusts them over your nose. Then, you carefully lower yourself down to your knees, bringing you to eye level with his throbbing, hardening cock.

Instantly, almost instinctively, Harry cards his fingers through your hair and inhales deeply. You make the mistake of looking up at him and see his shimmering eyes catch the rays of the disco ball, and suddenly all your bravado and confidence leaps out the window and hangs itself on a tree in an acrobatic maneuver you cannot even comprehend.

"Kim, why do you do things like this for me?" He whispers.

You ignore the question, instead leaning your head forward, letting Harry’s cock nuzzle against the skin of your cheek. The wafting scent of desire and soap and surprisingly expensive cologne hits you all at once, and it’s like the two of you are still in your bedroom, getting frisky on the bed like you're teenagers with nothing better to do the morning after, and this whole sex club ordeal is an elaborate role play you've concocted. If only that were the case. What you have to say next will be so much easier that way.

"One more thing," you say as your lips ghost over the tip of Harry’s semi-hard cock. "I’m not giving a hand-job to a fuck up of a cop. I plan to give a blowjob too."

You steel yourself, swallow down your fears, and then swallow Harry whole, taking him into your hot and wet mouth.

It’s been a while since you’ve last blown Harry, and already it feels so familiar and good because he’s gripping your hair so tightly with his shaking fist while the other hand tries to hang onto the wall. He moans, weakly at first, but once you take more and more of him in, his moans get louder, stronger, until they’re drowning out all the other moans and groans washing over the club (if only he could drown out the Anodic music as well). It’s a bit easy to blow Harry, because as impressive as he may be physically at his age his cock certainly isn’t quite at the same standard, although he certainly makes up for it with his round, if slightly flabby ass. Not that you're complaining. There is some truth to the stereotype that men with smaller dicks tend to try harder in the bedroom.

Except this isn’t the bedroom, it’s a dirty, smelly, loud sex club all the way in the sleaziest part of Jamrock, and you’re blowing your partner/boyfriend/maybe something more for all to see. And you know that they see you. You feel their eyes on every part of your body, taking in the flick of your tongue and the bob of your throat, of that hardness pushing into the inside of your cheek and the hardness growing inside your own pants. They probably see the little teary beads line your eyes and the subtle pink staining your skin. The audience tends to see things that the performers don’t.

Do they know that you would never have done this mere months before? That Harry has flipped your world upside down, made you realize that people can change, that you don’t need to keep everything in? Do they see the tremor in your hands as you suppress moan after moan because you only want one pair of ears to hear you at your most shameful? Do they know how far you’ve sunk for this pitiful slab of meat they call a cop? That you’ll do so many things just to see that piece of meat smile warmly upon your visage?

Just like they’re smiling down at you now?

You blink away the tears and glance up at Harry, who smiles languidly down at you. His hands cradle your jaw, massaging the tiring muscles. He’s soft and gentle, the moon reflecting the sun’s light back. 

And then you feel the roll of his hips as he sheathes himself fully into your mouth. He growls lightly, a predatory noise that tells all in the vicinity that you are his only, and that he will never let you go. His full erection throbs in your mouth. He’s hot and heavy on your tongue. He’s taking control of the Kim Kitsuragi sex mobile, hijacking it away from your grip. For once, you don’t mind. The tiniest whisper of a groan leaves your lips as you let go of the wheel, expecting a fiery inferno or the gruesome crash of metal against asphalt. You close your eyes, waiting for your precious car to get absolutely and utterly trashed.

Instead he takes the wheel smoothly, takes the clutch out, presses his foot on the accelerator, and drives into you, hard and fast. He takes you on a joyride, down familiar streets that now seem so new and exciting from the passenger seat, always keeping the perfect pace, accelerating when he thinks you can take it, coating your tongue with his flavor. It’s a wild ride, and you have to hold on tight, but it’s so good and so exhilarating. 

"Fuck, you’re so filthy for me," Harry growls at you. "Filthy, naughty boy."

And then you’re reminded of the people out in the streets, watching the two of you go on your crazy joyride. Harry performs, and they observe, but from here they seem so far away. The two of you are going so fast that they can’t touch the Kim Kitsuragi sex mobile. Only one other person can. And that man has put the pedal to the metal, chasing the slipstream, fucking your mouth roughly but precisely, your stop getting closer, closer, closer.

He doesn’t even ask for permission. You’re holding onto him so tight he has no other choice. Within seconds, Harry comes to his showstopping finale, howling in ecstasy.

Harry lets go of your head, staggers back, and then slumps against the wall to catch his breath. You wait until his wild eyes get clear enough to see you properly before you swallow his thick load in front of him and stand up, brushing your knees of dirt. Thin creamy strands drip down the edge of your mouth, and before you can react, Harry hastily wipes it away with a handkerchief—your handkerchief that you gave him all the way back in Martinaise—then uses it to cleans his own dripping cock. When he's done, he carefully folds it and tucks it into his pockets. He shoves his softening dick back into his pants clumsily.

He stares at you for a few seconds. You stare at him for a few seconds. The world has been drowned out, leaving only the two of you and your heavy breaths and the thick hardness constricting your pants. His hand finds your cheek, and you nuzzle into it. You don’t know if people still see you. You don’t care. There’s no one else Harry will ever touch like this. You don’t want anyone else to touch you like this.

"Good?" You croak.

"Good," Harry nods. He glances down at your crotch. "Want me to do something about that, or…?"

You shake your head. "No. Not here."

"Wanna get back home and I’ll take care of it there?"

"Please."

He takes your hand and kisses the knuckles one by one. It’s so completely ridiculous that you can’t help but laugh at the sight. With the belt still looped loosely around his neck, and his crimson cheeks and those awful shoes, he looks absolutely ridiculous. He is ridiculous, you remind yourself, and yet…you wouldn’t change that aspect of Harry. There’s a lot of things about him you wouldn’t change, grandiose gestures included.

He’s not perfect. He’s not even close to perfect. But he’s yours, and maybe you could be his. Maybe you might finally tell him how you feel about him. How you _really_ feel. And maybe, just maybe, he might reciprocate.

"You there, Kim?"

You shake your head. "Sorry. Let’s go home, shall we?"

There’s a knowing glint in Harry’s eyes, but he doesn’t say anything as he takes your hand into yours and leads you to the exit. For once, you don’t tell him off about holding hands.

* * *

The two of you arrive home eventually. Although how you were able to get home in one piece is a mystery to you. There was something unspoken at the sex club that got broken, something you did that you should not have done. The realization crept on you by surprise, only making itself fully apparent when you get to your apartment door and feel a pair of wandering eyes lavish their attention upon your frame. You know those wandering eyes, and you know how they take you in, but this feels different. Intimate. Probing. You hide the need to curl yourself up and hide.

"Harry," you fish for your keys from your pockets, "please don’t drool in or around the apartment. Otherwise you'll be cleaning it up."

But he doesn’t register what you say. Before you can get the door open, he pushes you against it, pinning your arms high above your head. He gets close, so close you can taste him, and you do when he leans forward to kiss you passionately on the mouth.

You squirm slightly, but Harry keeps on kissing, and you’re still turned on from the sex club, so you don’t even have the patience to push him away completely. That infernal tongue of his drags itself slowly around all your sensitive spots, stoking the fire that's been kindling inside your chest so easily. Only a strangled "inside" gets Harry to give you enough breathing room to open the front door leading to your home.

You head in first followed by Harry, the two of you depositing your jackets on the coat rack. Not a second after he closes the door, and Harry kisses you again, tilting your head up to him. You’re home now, the one place you let your defenses slip, and that's just what you do as you give in easily. You kiss him back with fervor, moaning into him, holding onto his shoulders as his tongue clicks open all your locks, pulling out shudders and gasps and deep, possessive groans.

He pulls your white tank top up to your neck, and leans down to suck on your nipple. In retaliation, you loosen the top few buttons of his shirt, exploring his gorgeously hairy chest and soft, meaty pectorals. Your fingers go lower, lower, until you get to a familiar bulge in front of his pants. You can’t help but gasp. Harry’s so deliciously hard, and so quickly too. But how? He’s not on drugs or alcohol, and despite his insistence sometimes, you are most certainly not a homosexual porn mag personified. Shouldn't he be nervous? Shouldn't he be awkward?

You must look stunned, because Harry chuckles lowly and admits, "The advice about the whole performance thing helped with the whole, well, performance anxiety thing."

Your voice is still a little bit hoarse from the blowjob, but you’re too proud to admit you’re ashamed by it. "So it’s nothing to do with me?"

"Oh, it’s everything to do with you," he whispers.

Harry shoves his pants down and lets his leaking cock spring out from its fabric prison. Just as quickly, his fingers grab the hem of your pants and pulls them down to your knees, then pulling your underwear down in just as swift a motion. He shifts himself so his cock makes contact with yours, and you swear you can feel fireworks going off in your synapses, your knees buckling in pure, unadulterated pleasure. 

His hand wraps around both your engorged members and starts stroking, making his cock slip and slide against yours. Your breath hitches. "F-fuck, Harry. What the hell are you thinking about to get you hard so fast?"

"You wanna know? I’m thinking about you."

You groan as Harry lowers his other hand down to your entrance and presses the tip of his finger in. The first hand still strokes both your cocks fluidly. You're seeing stars behind your glasses. "D-don’t be ridiculous."

"It’s the truth," Harry says. "Your hot body, the way you’re so cool about anything and everything, doing so many things to help me be less of a fuck up, it’s sexy." He leans forward and presses his lips to your quivering throat. "You’re sexy."

You groan, not as sexily as you wanted to. The heat collects in your cheeks. "S-stop it, Harry."

But he pumps both your cocks, undressing the protective layers that shield your soul with his touch and his words. You buck into him as though you’re twenty years younger than you are, like you have the energy to go all night, like you’ve never experienced this humble pleasure of being appraised and admired by someone who cares.

"Y-you’re…you’re acting," you mumble.

"Performing," Harry admits, "there’s a difference. Acting means I’m pretending to be someone else. Performing is pretending to be better than myself."

You can’t keep your walls up. They’re crumbling before you into dust as Harry sets explosive after explosive pleasure rocking through your foundations. He strokes you both a little bit faster and you feel your whole body shake and writhe. It will all come crashing down. You will come crashing down. For Harry, you will let them, because you know he will catch you. 

Harry’s face is crimson once more, his lips suddenly pulling up into a light chuckle. He notices your gaze, amusement glittering in his eyes. "Wanna know what I was thinking about just now?"

"What?"

"Cheese. I’d totally kill for a good slice of cheese."

You duck your head into your chin and laugh, pulling your glasses away from your face so it doesn’t fog up anymore. You deposit it somewhere, it doesn’t matter where. Nothing else in this world matters. Just Harry. Only Harry. "Cheese," you say. "You’re thinking about cheese while you’re jerking us both off."

"What? I am. I don’t know why I’m thinking about cheese, but I am thinking about cheese. Do you know where we might get some?"

"Clearly the cheese market opens at midnight for freshly fucked homosexuals to satisfy their food cravings," you give him a wry glare.

"So I should stop talking about cheese when I’m fucking you?"

"No," you shake your head, laughing, "fuck, just tell me whatever is on your head. Anything. If it means you're not nervous anymore, you can tell me anything. You can tell me about fucking cryptids again for all that I care."

Harry chuckles now. "I could," his eyebrows raise mischievously, "but I won’t. Far more important things to say right now."

Your body trembles. There’s something in the tone of his voice, something there that makes you feel all weird and fluttery. The last wall of your fortress begins to shake. "L-like?"

"Like you’re the best thing to happen to me," Harry smoothly kisses you on your lips. "Like you’re one of the reasons life feels like it has meaning."

That final wall crumbles slightly, but the base remains strong. A part of you doesn’t want him to break you down, but you know he will regardless. You’re scared, but you can tell from the shake of his hands and the tremble of his throat and the pained look in his eyes that he’s also scared. This is uncharted territory for the both of you.

"D-don’t," you plead.

"Don’t know why you’re with a fuck-up like me, but you are, and things feel like they can be better. Like I can be better. I don't think I've ever had someone care about me so much as you do."

You already know what he’s about to say. It’s been on the top of your tongue for well over a month. Three words that you’ve never said to anyone ever in your life.

"H-Harry, no," you groan.

"Kim, you know what I want to say. Let me say it."

You close your eyes, curl your hands into fists and steel yourself for the inevitable. Hot air breathes into your left ear. The explosives are primed and prepped.

"I love you," Harry whispers.

The final wall explodes, rocking your body as the tremors threaten to consume you. You moan, shrill and loud and strong, as your foundations collapse all around you, but Harry still strokes you, slowing but not stopping as you both squirt into his hand. And your body collapses with those foundations, and as you suspect, Harry holds you close, supporting your lithe frame and keeping you standing amidst the wreckage. You’re stunned, rattled, shaken, all from three little words.

Your hand reaches up to your face and you feel the heat emanate from it. In the reflection of Harry’s eyes, you see your bright, blushing face. It’s so unlike your normal expression, vulnerable and open, and you know instantly that Harry's pulled it out of you, just like he's pulled all those dark, twisted emotions out of your body.

In that instant, you know the two of you have gone past the point of no return.

You shove Harry away, backing up as much as you possibly can with your pants hanging from your ankles. Your heartbeat races inside your chest and your lungs burn. He's too close, you've let him too close. Pushing him away is the only thing that feels familiar. You've no idea what to expect. You've never let someone this close.

"W-what kind of fucking games are you trying to play, Harry?!"

"Huh?"

"Look, I know this is your first homosexual relationship but you don't say things like that. You can't just say it just because you can."

Harry's eyebrows furrow. "Kim, you…you don't think I mean it when I said I love you?"

You can't help but cringe slightly at the L word. You turn your head away. "Twenty years ago, saying that to another man was a death sentence. Just because the official law has changed doesn't make much of a difference to every fucking racist, sexiest, homophobic asshole out there, and trust me, there's a lot of them."

"Kim…" Harry tries to close the distance, but you shove Harry away with far less strength than before.

"Don't…" your voice trembles. "Don't say it."

"When's the last time anyone's ever said they loved you?"

You're silent for several seconds. You don't need to think hard to know the answer. It's obvious. He's broken you down so completely.

Harry frowns. "When's the last time you told someone you loved them?"

"Harry…" you warn. Any other day you could pull the eyebrow on him and force him to stop, but you can't. It'd be completely selfish and cruel, and you no longer have the capability of being so cruel to Harry. Not after those three words. Harry takes a tentative step towards you and caresses your cheek.

"Am I the first one to say it?"

You gulp audibly. After a few seconds, you nod.

"I see," Harry says diplomatically. "And…does that mean you don't feel the same?"

"Harry, you don't understand. I _can't_ say it. I physically can't. That one word means far more to me than it does to you." After a few seconds you add, quietly, "You love things so easily."

"But they don't love me back," he says morosely. "Drugs, alcohol, Dora, work, none of it fucking loves me back. But...but I thought..."

"That's not true, I…" your throat clamps shut. You sharply inhale. His eyes flicker back onto yours, wide and mysterious and unnerving just like the Pale. You've fallen into those eyes before, you know they can draw you in, but Harry doesn't try and take you while you're vulnerable. He leans his head forward and rests it against yours, one hand rubbing your jaw tenderly.

"You don't need to say it, Kim. I know you love me."

The heat in your cheeks spreads down your chest, down to your limbs, making you feel hot and anxious. But the gentle coolness of Harry's sweaty forehead against yours tethers you, and you can't help but feel safe. "I..." That's all you can manage to say. 

"You hated the sex club. You wouldn't have taken me there ordinarily, but because you thought I needed help with my performance anxiety. And you sucked me off there, too."

You can't help but scoff lightly. "I need more evidence than that, detective."

"You make breakfast for two in the morning sometimes."

"You make breakfast also. And I always make portions for two. You know I'm a big eater." A partial lie. You do eat a lot despite your physique, but not enough to make two portions worth. Somehow, you just know Harry knows this as well.

"You do that kinky choking thing I like."

"Autoerotic asphyxiation. And I still prefer the collar," you quickly say.

Harry nuzzles his nose into yours, smiling. "You let me talk about fucking cheese when I'm fucking you."

A smirk. "So?"

"You care about me. Far more than you should."

You can't help but smile back. "Are you just going to keep making suggestions until you force a confession out of me?"

"That's the plan," Harry chuckles.

You quirk one eyebrow up, your lips pulled into a tight grin as you cup Harry's face and kiss him tenderly on the lips. There's no tongue, nothing but the slightest shift of your lips and the pressure of your fingertips and that aching vulnerability that makes your body shiver. It lasts an eternity and a second, though the actual amount of time is somewhere in between. Your gazes connect, your expressions almost identical. It's vulnerability, and fear, and care, and love.

"Kim…" Harry whispers.

"Does that answer it for you?" You ask quietly.

Harry glances down to your crotch and smirks. "Oh, I think so."

You follow his gaze down, and are mortified to find that you're already at half-mast again.

Just like that, the blush returns with a vengeance. "T-this is new…" You're unsure if you're referring to your cock or your blushing cheeks. Probably the latter.

"Afraid I don't have a third one in me, Kim." He kisses your chin. "But I don't want to leave you hanging."

You give him another fleeting kiss back. "Good thing we're not expected tomorrow."

Harry smiles back at you. "Dildo?"

"Please."

"May I have the honour, sir?"

You chuckle. "If you've got the energy."

As Harry insists, and then succeeds, in picking you up and carrying you bridal-style to the bedroom, you can't help but think. You're not the clubbing type at all, or the affectionate type, or the openly vulnerable type. Not even a year ago you wouldn't think you'd be Harry's type either. But he's here, and so are you, and the both of you have so much love to give with your kisses and your touch and your moans and your whispers. Harry changes with every little thing he learns, whether it be how to cook eggs without burning them or fucking you perfectly with the dildo in your bedside table. He grows, he transforms, sometimes for the better, perfect proof that people are capable of change. Even stick-in-their-ass Lieutenants like yourself.

As you smile at Harry with all the warmth you muster, those three little words floating in your head, you wonder if perhaps you could change so much as to breathe those words into life. One day, you decide. Definitely one day. Until then, you'll let your fingers do the talking.


End file.
